


Nineteen Miles to Garreg Mach

by chidorinnn



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, Introspection, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 21:57:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21022901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chidorinnn/pseuds/chidorinnn
Summary: She is both Byleth and Sothis. It is unclear where one ends and the other begins. Perhaps they were never Byleth and Sothis to begin with — maybe they were always Byleth-and-Sothis, bound together long before either of them had any conscious thought of it. What does it say of her, that she still thinks of them as separate? What does it say of her, to think that this body is still unquestionablyByleth’swhile the power that courses through her veins is still unquestionablySothis’s, and nothing in between can be attributed to just one or the other?





	Nineteen Miles to Garreg Mach

**Author's Note:**

> some music to set the mood: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SooYWiXtHnI

It’s a long, long way to Garreg Mach. Longer still, when there is no one with her to pass the time and the path there is unnaturally barren and still.

She had stayed for a week with the kind fisherman who had pulled her out of the river, stripped her of her ruined armor in favor of a clean shift that hadn’t been devastated and torn apart by five years of slumber. Perhaps she should be thankful that he didn’t immediately send her to the morgue, because her heart still did not beat after all this time. Perhaps he would have, had she remained unconscious for a second longer, had her lungs not taken that moment to seize, suddenly, as she coughed up five years’ worth of water.

“You sure you’ll be all right, miss?” the fisherman asks. What a sight she must make — drawn and pale from years of slumber, pale green hair grown long and unkempt with shadowed green eyes and pointed ears to match, reminiscent of a time long past that very few remember — clinging to the wooden staff he’d lent her as she hobbles on, endlessly, on shaking legs that threaten to crumple beneath her.

She will be all right. She has no choice.

“Thank you again,” she says, and moves on.

It’s a long, long way to Garreg Mach. Longer still, when there is no one with her to pass the time and the path there is unnaturally barren and still — and so, she counts the miles.

One. She is both Byleth and Sothis. It is unclear where one ends and the other begins. Perhaps they were never Byleth and Sothis to begin with — maybe they were always Byleth-and-Sothis, bound together long before either of them had any conscious thought of it. What does it say of her, that she still thinks of them as separate? What does it say of her, to think that this body is still unquestionably _Byleth’s_ while the power that courses through her veins is still unquestionably _Sothis’s_, and nothing in between can be attributed to just one or the other?

Two. Father knew. He may not have known the extent, but he knew — because a child with no heartbeat, with no tears and an impassive face that is slow to react to anything but the thick of battle, is not _natural_. He knew and he did not care because Byleth was his daughter and, though she did not know it at the time, he had already thrown away everything he loved to keep her safe.

Three. Byleth was loved. It was an imperfect love, one she’s still not sure she should forgive Father for, because with it came isolation, an immeasurable gap in knowledge of the world beyond their small, imperfect family and the ground beneath their feet, that not even the months she spent at the monastery could hope to alleviate — but she was _loved_. It was an unconditional love, because it was never something she needed to _earn_, and it was something that would never be taken away no matter how odd and unlike the other children she was, even though she might never _become_ like the other children. Father loved her anyway. Father had died loving her.

Four. Sothis was loved, too. She was loved by countless children, a world of people that sought comfort in her gifts. Her children’s love was unconditional; that of the world was not — and in the end, she died for that love, and so, too, did her children.

Five. The will of a goddess is a vast and mysterious thing, and far, far too much for such a small, weak human body to bear — but if the will of the goddess is to _survive_, then so, too, shall her mortal vessel — even if that vessel should have died herself. Even if that vessel is small and imperfect. Even if that vessel’s mind functions differently from that of other humans.

Six. Byleth _had_ died, upon her birth. Perhaps it wasn’t so odd that her heart did not beat, so much as it was a natural consequence of the fact that she never had one to begin with. A Crest Stone, after all, has the power to bestow life against all Faith or Reason that would indicate otherwise — but it does not beat like a human’s heart should.

Seven. Byleth may have died of natural causes, but Sothis was _murdered_. There is an anger that swirls deep within her gut at the mere thought of it, and it makes the Sword of the Creator pulse with that selfsame energy. And why should it not? The Sword of the Creator, too, is part of her, detached as it is from the rest of her body.

Eight. Whatever the scope of her anger may be, it pales in comparison to that of Seiros. _Oh, Seiros, love, this should have never been your burden to bear._

Nine. Whatever the scope of her fear, it pales in comparison to that of Cichol. _My sweet, sweet Cichol, this life should never have been your fate._

Ten. Whatever the scope of her sorrow, it pales in comparison to that of Cethleann. _Dearest heart, you deserve far more than this._

Eleven. Thousands of years ago, she and her children were murdered in their sleep. It was unjust and cruel, and there was nothing that could be done but to avenge them.

Twelve. Indech and Macuil hid. Cichol fled. Cethleann slept. Seiros rebuilt the world upon her family’s bones.

Thirteen. Not one of them forgot. Not one of them forgave.

Fourteen. Only Seiros saw fit to punish those responsible, down to the last dregs of their bloodline.

Fifteen. But Byleth is not Seiros’s mother. Only Sothis is.

Sixteen. Twenty-five years ago, Seiros took her mother’s heart and placed it in the chest of a dead child’s. The child lived, but her body would never be strong enough to bear the will of the goddess whose heart she shared — not unless it _changed_.

Seventeen. Seiros was only doing what she thought was right.

Eighteen. How could Seiros do this? She had no right.

Nineteen. She is mother and daughter both, forever destined to be torn away from her loved ones as the world wages war on their bones. It’s not fair. _She wants them back._

She gasps, staggers against the wooden staff. Her body is frail, unused to the strain of travel after five long years of slumber — but the monastery’s gates loom before her, silent and still and so unlike the home she remembers.

She breathes, steels her resolve, and walks in.


End file.
